Liberation
by PenShips
Summary: AU. Sherlock runs away from his duty to the Government and into a life of piracy. Stuck in a dystopian society where women, colours and Magiks are considered to be worth less than dirt, he searches for freedom and finds it, in the Magik Molly Hooper.
1. Chapter 1

**_I don't own Sherlock or Molly Hooper. _**

**_I've had this idea floating around my head for a while and I was perfectly content to ignore it but then it started to get in the way of studying. I literally couldn't stop thinking about it so I thought-despite having tried to ban myself from the computer and tumblr and fanfiction and just basically the bloody internet-that I would jot it down. _**

**_So, yeah. Enjoy my Sherlolly shippers! :)_**

**_PS - see if you can spot my reference to Pirates to the Caribbean (Which is another thing I don't own)._**

* * *

_"Whether we wound or are wounded, the blood that flows is red."_** - Eiichiro Oda**_**  
**_

**_Liberation. _**

**_Chapter I._**

He fools himself into thinking that the reason he ran away was because he much preferred the cool, salty sea breeze on his face rather than the stuffy, stale air of the Government. The open sea was his home; adventure was in his bones-he wasn't cut out for the life of a politician. No-too many lies, too many secrets, no freedom. Sherlock Holmes fools himself into thinking that life was better as a pirate, because he would never admit-not even to himself-that he is scared; scared of his brother, scared that the Government will turn him _into_ his brother, scared that he will disappoint his family even more because of his utter lack of respect and hatred for the Government.

Piracy is the liberation that he had been searching for since he was a little boy and being the Captain of the _Demon Eye_ fills him each day with a sense of pride, joy and absolute control. Something, which he knew he would not get if he had taken the path his brother organised for him. Mycroft Holmes may dictate the Government but Sherlock Holmes _dominated_ the sea. His crew was small and manageable, and consisted of John Watson, a disgraced Royal Navy medical officer, Gregory Lestrade, a fired Chief of Police, Alan Anderson, a begger that Greg had taken pity on in Port Royal, Tommy Rolf Ceths, a rogue vigilante on behalf of the Natives in America and the youngest member, Steven Ragetti, an orphaned boy who had been living on the streets of London.

Opening the door of his cabin, he stepped out onto the upper deck, the fresh saline air and blinding sun's light engulfing his senses. He blinked, once, twice and three times before he was able to take in his surrounds. As far as he could tell, Greg was already on the quarter deck navigating the ship to Australia where a recently deceased Captain Yung had buried gold rightfully belonging to Sherlock, Tommy and Steven were in the kitchen probably preparing a meal from the stock they had stolen from the _HMS Reichenbach_-lead by the ignorant and increasing annoying Commodore Moriarty-and John and Alan were nowhere to be seen which meant that Alan had foolishly cut himself on a blunt sword and the doctor was tending to it or Alan was lazing about somewhere and John was beating the laziness out of him. He moved to the edge of the upper deck and looked out at the horizon, blue stretched as far as his eyes could see; the sky and water bled together and there was no telling what was up or down, right or left. A man could easily end up lost out here, dying of hunger and delirious with dehydration-sometimes, Sherlock is very grateful for Greg as their navigator.

'Morning Captain!' Greg hollered to him from the quarter deck.

Sherlock nodded and smiled politely at him before turning and opening the hatch leading to the lower deck. A small square room presented itself to him, with doors adjacent to each other, one leading to the room where the men slept in their hammocks and the other lead to the make shift kitchen Tommy had created. On the floor, was another hatch leading to the gun deck and directly below this hatch would be another one, leading to the hull which stored the food and treasures taken from various ports and islands or other ships. Sherlock hated being down in the hull, there was always that niggling voice in his head reminding him that he was underwater. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he opened the door leading to the kitchen; Tommy and Steven were chopping up some sort of vegetable Tommy had harvested from the jungle. Sherlock pursed his lips and closed the doors; he was brought up to believe that cooking was a slave's job and while he rejected every idea his old man ever put into his head, he preferred to stay away from the preparation of food. His culinary skills including burning water, ruining tea and completely setting fire to anything he tried making.

From the voices he can hear coming from the crew's bedroom, Sherlock knows that Alan has been sleeping in late once again and John was giving him a solid beating if his yelps and howls were anything to go by. If he's honest, he never liked Alan Anderson but Greg took pity on him and he had to admit, Alan was pathetic but he still opened up his ship to him on one condition; the condition he gave to anyone and everyone who set foot on his vessel, they were to do their share of hard work and share whatever treasures they found fairly even though gold was never Sherlock's objective-only knowledge-in his piracy however it never hurt to keep his men happy. It wasn't hard to figure why Alan had been homeless on the streets of Jamaica, after all once he got his share of treasure, he was obligated to spend every single ounce on women, booze, fine clothes, good food, alcohol and gambling. Once every penny was spent, he would then complain with such passion that his share was short and start a fight with Sherlock.

Rolling his eyes at the cries of Alan, which every member of the crew knew was melodramatic since John Watson was a man whose blows stung like a fly bumping into one's skin-John's skill lay with his gunmanship rather than his hand-to-hand combat-he climbed up the ladder to the upper deck to check on Greg. Going to Australia was a trek and he knew that his entire crew thought he was crazy for trying to get there without stopping to replenish stocks but he had convinced them when they had docked at Port Royal. Only six men were aboard the _Demon Eye_ and the stocks he collected were for a full crew, so not only would they have more food but it would last longer-since they would stick to guideline rations. The crew had calmed down after he showed them his logic and more than happy to push on when he mentioned the treasure they were after belonged to the back-stabbing Captain Yung.

Moving up the stairs to the quarter deck, he noticed Greg was looking at him with a weird expression on his face, one he could not deduce. Sherlock glanced down at himself briefly, he was wearing something similar to what he usually wore-a tanned skin-tight trousers, his loose white undershirt, his black boots, complete with his belt holding his cutlass on one side and his gun on the other and his favourite hat. It was free compared to the horrid suits he would have to wear if he had been in London. There was nothing wrong with him, yet Greg's face still held the same expression. Sherlock glanced over Greg to make sure he didn't suffer a bite from an insect and was delirious or was suffering from some sort of sickness. Greg wore his sleeveless and rather tight black tunic-Steven had somehow stole the wrong size for him-with his overly large trousers-another mishaps with Steven-and suitable shoes made for running, his weapons were placed on the table, built into the deck, anchoring down the maps.

'Is something wrong, Greg?' Sherlock asked him, immediately breezing past him and to the maps, checking their position.

'Hmm? Oh. No,' Greg answered, his voice quivering with an emotion that Sherlock could only liken to fear. 'None whatsoever, Captain.'

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and turned away from the maps once he had discovered they were three days away from Australia's shore, he leaned against the table, legs and arms crossed. Greg had turned away from him and placed his hands on the ship's wheel, his muscles jumping from fear-while Sherlock wasn't a violent person, if provoked his torture methods and anger could rival the Devil himself. This was interesting, Greg felt guilty for some reason. His hair was matted with grease-which meant he didn't wash today-and he remembered that he had black bags under his eyes, meaning he didn't sleep last night and he looked a little well fed-far more than a man on ration should be, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then had to hold back his laughter once it hit him.

'Greg, you know better than to lie to me,' he feigned anger.

'I'm sorry,' he said, bowing his head. 'My wife used to make them and I just couldn't help myself. And I went down to eat just one scone and...and one turned into two and before I knew it...it...it was all gone and now Alan is taking the blame for me because I-'

Unable to contain his mirth, Sherlock doubled over, crude laughter slipping past his lips. Alan was being punished for something that wasn't his fault; that was a rare occasion. He knew it was cruel and he should immediately transfer the punishment of scrubbing the outside of the ship to Greg but he _really_ disliked Alan and besides, Sherlock reasoned in his mind, maybe he might finally earn his keep instead of lazing around. Greg stood staring at him as though he had lost his mind.

'You're not...mad?' he asked.

Sherlock grinned. 'Because you ate all the scones? Of course not, Greg. I detest scones and Tommy assures me we have four days worth of food left and it only takes three days to get to Australia,' he explained. 'Anything-or one-that causes the mild discomfort in Alan, I like.'

Greg let out a shuddering breath in relief however his muscles didn't stop twitching and his shoulders were still tense. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glancing briefly over him once again. Greg was scared, he realized, scared of going to Australia. It didn't surprise him since he had been the hardest member of the crew of convince but no, this was something more. Greg wasn't just scared, he was downright terrified.

'Greg?' he questioned, gently. 'Is there something else you want to tell me?'

Turning around to face Sherlock, his hands begun to wring the life out of each other and his legs were bent slightly away from his captain while his eyes were casted downwards, fear clear in his features. What Greg was hiding was not as jovial as the one where he crept down to the hull to stuff his face with scones, it was big and dark and quite frankly, put Sherlock a little on edge and he didn't even know what it was.

'Right,' the large muscled man laughed nervously. 'You know, on my mother's side-right? My great grandmother was a Magik, right? And that was why I got fired from my job, right?'

Sherlock sighed in annoyance and pushed himself off the table to stand face to face with Greg. While Greg was shorter than he was, he made up for it in brute force but Sherlock knew that he was quicker with a sword and gun than any man he had ever met and that included Greg. 'Yes, I know all of that, your point?'

'Well,' Greg glanced around to make sure no one was on deck and leaned in closer. 'that's why I'm so good. That's why I'm so good at navigating. Whatever little magic I have, it pulls me to where ever we're going-that's why I hardly look at the maps.'

This wasn't a surprise to Sherlock, he had figured out Greg's Magik background the first time he had ever sailed the ship. It didn't bother him as much as it would have bothered the Government. Magiks and colours were the brunt of society; filth, a drain on resources, the coloured or Magik men would rape young, white women and they're vile, horrible thieves. It always made Sherlock uncomfortable when anyone was openly racist towards the supposedly lesser beings. Despite growing up in a well-off family, who supported the Government's every move, as well as having Magik and coloured slaves to serve them, he never took the path of his peers and parents-perhaps, Sherlock often mused, it was because the only woman who ever offer kindness and love when he was a child was the Magik slave who cleaned his play-room, Eve Aldorian. Her kind blue eyes and fiery red hair swam before him, her sweet Irish lullabies trailing behind it.

Sherlock cleared his throat, mentally pushing his thoughts aside. 'Yes, Greg. You've been in my crew long enough to know me and know that I deduced this years ago. I have not made a fuss about it, why bring it up now?'

Greg nodded. 'And I thank you...for not making a fuss but my magic is pulling me away from Australia. I'm sure if you ask John, he will tell you that I have been sick, on several accounts because of it. John thinks it to be a stomach bug but I know better, Captain.'

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out an aggravated sigh. He had seen what happened to ignorant people who did not heed the words of a Magik who wasn't force to wear the ankle clamp. However, the treasure buried in Australia was _his_ and he'd be damned if he left it there for some amateur to find. Slowly opening his eyes, he glanced over to Greg, his heart thumping in his chest and his mind scolding him for being so illogical.

'Nevertheless, push on. I want to meet Australia's shore within the three days.'

* * *

Taking a deep breath in, she allowed a rare smile to grace her features as she breathe out. Whenever she was close to nature, she always felt free. All her troubles and problems seemed to fly away-she could no longer feel the ankle clamp that anchored her to slavery and she no longer felt her soul suppressed. The wind caressed her face gently and riding upon it, she swore she could hear her mothers' voice comforting her.

'Molly!'

Moledyn Hooper turned around and caught sight of a nine year old, caramel-skinned boy, running towards her. She barely had enough time to brace herself as the boy flung himself at her. Laughing as she was thrown to the floor, she brought her arms around the little boy and cuddled him to her.

'Jarli,' she scolded, good-naturedly. 'What are you doing here? I thought you couldn't come out of the stables?'

The little boy turned his face up towards her, his cheeky grin firmly in place. 'I'm smart, Molly. I'm always smarter than Boss. I snuck out.'

Molly smiled down at her half-brother as she reminisced of her disobedient days where she would sneak out of their old owner's home, only to stand in the middle of the gardens, just to be surrounded by the calm of Mother Earth. It was here that she would practice her magic and bring the garden, which had been oppressed by the owner's awfully temper and ignorance, to life. Flexing her toes, a great sadness blanketed her as she realized that because of the clamp on her ankle she could never practice magic again. She could never feel the power leave her body and become one with her surroundings, she would never be able to have the sheer joy she could get from lifting just a cup with just her mind but worst of all, she would never be able to teach Jarli magic. Her arms unconsciously tightened around the little boy, causing him to squeeze back just as hard.

'I know, Jarli,' Molly smiled. 'I know you're smart. You're always smart. Smart little boy. My Jarli. My smart, smart Jarli.'

Jarli trembled and burrowed his head into Molly's breast. 'Molly?' he inquired, his voice muffled.

'Yes?'

'I don't want you to go.'

Furrowing her eyebrows, she sat up, gently pushing Jarli off of her and positioning him to kneel next to her. 'Go?' She quirked an eyebrow. 'Who said anything about going anywhere?'

'Boss did. He said, he's gonna sell you to Mr. Moran because he lost Mr. Fred's gamble and Mrs. Boss is going to have his balls if he doesn't find some way to pay it back.'

Molly's blood ran cold. Alexander Plinkton's gambling problem was well known to all the slaves who worked for him; he just couldn't help himself, even when the odds were against him, he just continued to gamble his money and possessions away. While Alexander Plinkton was an annoying, pig-headed excuse of a man, he was happily-if one could call it that-married to his wife, Charlotte however Sebastian Moran was a man who had no wife of his own, only mistresses and whores. He had his eye on her for a long time but Charlotte, who in her own way had more morals that any of the men in Australia put together, refused to sell her to him.

'Are you sure?' she asked, praying that Jarli had misheard.

'Positive, sis! What are we gonna to do? I know I'm only nine but I know that Mr. Moran has an ugly aura. I don't want you to go with him.'

Molly glanced at her brother, his big brown doe eyes was certainly inherited from their mother but his nose and lips were definitely from his father. Sometimes, even his mannerisms reminded her of Tau, the only man her mother ever loved. Beforehand, Penelope Hooper couldn't even look at her own daughter because Molly was a reminder of the unspeakable act that was forced upon her by her owner. Before Tau came into the picture, Molly had never felt real love but Tau had changed all of that, showed Penelope that Molly was hers, always her and never _his_.

'Moledyn?' When Jarli used her given name, she knew that it meant he was either scared, upset with her or he was incredibly serious. Given the circumstance, Molly would say that it probably meant all three.

'Yeah?'

'You promised mama that we would always stick together. You can't leave me. You can't be sold to Mr. Moran.'

Molly nodded subconsciously. When her mother, father, Jarli and herself had been caught and punished for being runaway slaves, they were taken to the nearest market and had all their ankles clamped. She had only been twelve while Jarli was not even four months old yet. They were separated from their mother and father after they had been herded out with the first bunch of slaves to be auctioned off. Every night her parents voices plagued her dreams and she had to relive the scene as Jarli and her were sold to the highest bidder-separated from their parents forever.

'I know, but what can I do? We-'

Jarli jumped up and started pacing around her. His little eyebrows furrowed and his lips pulled into a grimace, it looked so out of place. The face of a grown-up on a small child. 'Let's run, Molly. Please. Let's run.'

Her throat suddenly became restricted and tears sprung to her eyes, she turned away so Jarli couldn't see them. 'We don't have magic, darling,' she explained. 'They will catch us.'

A growl ripped out of his throat, so feral and primal that Molly was taken back since it had come from her baby brother. 'I don't care, Moledyn! It will be better than just staying here. Moledyn, I love you. I don't want you to go.'

She looked up to the sky, grey clouds started to roll in. It would start to rain soon-if she was correct and she always was-they would have twenty minutes to get to shelter. The idea was always there in her mind but she had tried to ignore it mainly for sake of Jarli, she didn't want to be on the run when he was growing up, it was no way for a child to live but it seemed that he wanted it now. It wasn't guaranteed that they wouldn't be caught because she couldn't perform magic to mask them but she knew the Outback like the back of her hand and she knew that despite they had put a clamp on her doing magic, it didn't stop her body from exuding it; Mother Nature would help her.

Pulling Jarli into a hug, she ran her hands over his hair. It was greasy-maybe they would take their time and have a shower in the rain. He was dirty and smelt terrible, probably because Plinkton had him working and living with the horses. She couldn't complain, she hadn't taken a wash in a week. Slaves usually didn't have baths or showers because it was impossible to wash off dirt that had been embedded into their soul. Molly shook with anger as the Goverment's taunts and stupid ideology bore its way into her mind but she kept her temper under control, not wanting to give Jarli a bad impression of his big sister.

'I promise you, Jarli, that no one will ever separate us,' she smiled at him. 'We will run, I swear but first let's have a wash...you stink!'

Jarli scrunched up his nose. 'No, you stink. I smell like flowers,' he stuck his tongue out and sniffed under his arm-only to grimace and pull out of her embrace, breaking into a run. 'But you'll have to catch me before you bathe me, Molly!'


	2. Chapter 2

_**I own nothing apart from Jarli.**_

_**Do forgive any mistakes-this is not beta-tested. I repeat this is not beta-tested. Read at your own risk. :)**_

* * *

_**Liberation.**_

_**Chapter II.**_

The darkness crept across the sky like spilled ink, there were no stars or clouds, no wind. Everything was still, quiet. The quarter moon hung in the heavens, smiling down at Molly as she manoeuvred her way out of the slave quarters and tiptoed to the stables. Moran had stopped over to have dinner with the Plinktons and she had been placed in the dining room to serve them food; she had never done that before, her place had always been in the kitchen but she knew that Plinkton swapped her because he wanted Moran to get a good look at her. It was all she could do to keep quiet as she felt Moran's lecherous gaze upon her-if she hadn't already decided to run with Jarli, that would have certainly have made the decision for her.

A twig snapped. Molly froze, her eyes wide as she started to curse her stupidity. She should have been aware of her surroundings, instead of blindly walking around with her head in the clouds. Slowly, she slid to the floor and crawled to hide behind a bush, trying to brush her foot over her footprints as she went. Moran was a tracker-and a very good, ruthless one at that. She tried to calm her breathing as her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest. Please, she thought, tears springing to her eyes, please, please, please, please, please. A red dot was illuminated in the darkness as one of the figures-Moran, probably-took a drag from his cigar.

'So,' she heard a voice squeak. Her heart began racing even faster, it was Plinkton. 'What do you think?'

'I like her,' Moran's voice slithered through the darkness. 'I like her, a lot.'

Someone coughed. She could only assume it was Plinkton, since he didn't smoke and it was probably tickling his throat. 'So you'll take her then?'

Moran hummed, nonchalantly. Molly felt the need to grab a knife and ram it straight into his throat, the need was so overwhelming that she had to calm herself down and forced herself to think of Jarli and how he would react if she was caught and tried for murder. The two men turned and walked back to the house, chatting and laughing about some pirate that was running into Moran's trap. Just to be on the safe side, Molly stayed on the floor, hiding behind the dead, dried up bush. Her heart was so loud in her own ears that she didn't even hear someone creeping up behind her. She had almost had a heart attack when the person touched her shoulder.

'Molly,' Jarli said as she sprung up and spun around in a defensive stance. 'It's only me, Molly.'

Her body immediately relaxed. 'Jarli. Don't scare me like that.'

The little boy's face split into a wide grin. 'You're really going. We're really going, aren't we?' he said to her, jumping up and down on the spot. 'We are really getting out of this stupid place.'

Her heart ached for Jarli, he was so happy to be leaving slavery but he didn't know what awaited him out there. It was tiring, to constantly be running, hiding, all the lies and pretence dragged down the soul but it was the only way to gain freedom. Though he was only nine, Molly had faith that he could and would be able to look after himself if anything happened to her. For a child, he was so much more matured that she ever was at that age and in a way, that made her unbelievably mad to think that he wasn't able to enjoy being a child. It was the only time in her life that she had felt safe, secure.

'Jarli,' Molly said, a serious and pleading expression on her face as she knelt down and grabbed her brother by the shoulder's, gripping it tightly. 'Jarli, listen to me. It won't be easy. We'll always be running. Watching out for trackers. Never trusting anyone. I want-I want you to,' Molly swallowed down a few sobs that were coming up and gritted her teeth, trying to gather her strength in front of Jarli. She refused to allow him to see her crying. 'I want you to leave me if I get caught and you don't, ok? If you ever have a chance to escape-take it. No, Jarli, look at me. I'm serious here. I want you to run if I'm going to die. Don't be a hero. Don't try to save me. Run.'

Jarli scrunched his face up and shrugged off her hands. 'But Moledyn, it's not fair. I would neve-'

She grabbed a hold of his hands, bringing it together in front of his body and then kissing it, gently. 'This is not up for discussion. You suggested we run. You decided you were ready but that does not mean you get to call the shots. I want you to understand me here. I am your big sister. You will listen to me. Do you understand?'

He kicked the dirt, suddenly becoming bashful at the harsh tone she used. 'Fine,' he mumbled.

Pulling him into a quick hug, she gave him a peck on the cheek and then jumped slightly as the wind whistled past her. It was good, she told herself, that she was vigilant-it meant that she and her brother wouldn't get caught in the outback. Her eyes was slowly adjusting to the lack of light and she was now able to make out shadowy objects which led to her painting a picture in her mind of the surroundings she was so use to seeing in daylight. Grabbing a hold of Jarli's hand, she sprinted towards the east side fence because it was behind the stables. This meant that they would have total privacy if someone in the house or slave quarters decided to look out.

As she neared the fence, one hand in Jarli's and the other reaching under her skirt for the kitchen knife she stole, her heart soared, thinking only of Jarli's glee when they would be out in the open and away from rules and regulations, scrutiny and prejudice. In her mind she tried and failed to come up with a reason why she had waited so long to escape. Nothing, _nothing_ could compare to the uplifting feeling of running away. Briefly, she wondered why the others had never tried it.

* * *

The prospect of gold did not excite Sherlock but it seemed that the precious substance from the Earth drove most men writhe with envy and mad with desire. In fact had it not been for the very important vial of blood amongst the treasure that Captian Yung had stolen from him, he would have allowed any fool to stumble upon the glittering metals and succumb to its power. The vial of blood belonged to the mother of a family he had been studying, the father was a Magik and the mother was a supposed non-Magik but the child had Magik. Originally, he had lost the vial due to a drunken mistake when reading Yung's face at a betting game but he behaved stupidly and threw a tantrum, demanding a rematch. He'd won the second time around but he had made Yung suspicious of its value and he stole it from Sherlock, believing it to be of great importance. Of course, it was great importance only to Sherlock but not to anyone else because if his hypothesis was correct-and it usually was-then his findings would mark a breakthrough in how Magiks were seen.

'Captain,' John said, knocking on his desk in his cabin to get his attention. Sherlock blinked, he did not even hear John come in. 'We're here but there is a little problem.'

Raising his eyes to look into John's, his heart skipped a beat as he thought back to how he had ignored Greg's advice. 'Problem?' he growled, standing up and subsequently pushing the chair he had been sitting on to the floor. 'Exactly what is the problem?'

The shorter man gulped and looked away from Sherlock. Oh, this was bad-if it got John nervous then Sherlock knew it was very bad indeed. Barging past his best friend, he burst out of his cabin and upon glancing to the left he immediately spotted the _little _problem. A fleet of British ships were standing guard blocking the way to the pirate's port in Australia which meant that they had apprehended everyone and anyone who was around the magically hidden harbour at the time and had been capturing any pirate ship that came to dock there. A blind bout of rage came over him as he knew that anyone caught there would be executed, without question. They'd pay. They'd all pay. He knew that the Government could never be equal to the cunning and devious minds of pirates-especially the one who build this port-which meant that there was a traitor amongst them; someone who showed them the way to the pirate's port, some scoundrel who gave them the code for entering into the small town hidden by the invisibility and repellent charm. _The Demon Eye_ was lucky, for she had not yet been spotted; Greg had anchored the ship behind a cliff so that they were invisible to the fleet but if they made any movement to leave, they would be seen. In other words, they were trapped.

'Blast it!' Sherlock yelled, slamming his hand down on the wood of the ship. 'Damn Mycroft and his ships!'

'Captain,' Steven said, coming forth and resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulder.

He looked so big; Sherlock remembered the day he had found him. It was the day he had stormed out of Mycroft's house claiming that he would never work in or with the Government and it was Mycroft's choice to either lose his only brother or stay in charge-disappointingly of course, Mycroft chose the Government. Steven had been just a little boy, no older than seven, and only skin and bones. In his blind anger and haste to get away from his brother's home, Sherlock had tripped over the child who took the opportunity to pickpocket him and run off with his pouch of gold, usually Sherlock would have let the boy go, more angry at the fact that he hadn't deduce that the boy was a thief than over the fact he had lost any money but the pouch was special. It was knitted for him by Eve and it was the only thing he had left of her.

However running after the lad had definitely set a change of pace in his life, if he didn't run after Steven then he would have ignored Mycroft just to spite him but since he had nowhere else to go, either to the family home, the summer house or the flat he had purchased in London, he would have surely been found by his brother who would have tried to talk some sense into him and because he would have been tired and bored of Mycroft's speech, Sherlock probably would have caved in especially if he pulled the 'what would mummy think' argument out. Running after Steven was the best decision he could have ever made in his life, for it was the path that had led him down to piracy.

'You're...You're...You're Captain Sherlock Holmes!' Steven cried. 'You're the greatest pirate that ever lived, ruthless when you need to be and forgiving when it suits you best. You won't ever get outsmarted by the British Government.'

Sherlock spun around, the gears in his mind whirring into action. A distraction, of course-it was simply obvious when he thought about it, unfortunately there would be the problem of choosing who would make the distraction. A man would have to be left behind. Quickly he shut the door in his mind palace on that topic; he would face it when the time came but for now he was focused on getting his men the gold and himself the little vial of blood. He could see it in his mind, how they would execute the plan, everything would go perfectly if they stick to it.

'Perfect, Steven,' Sherlock clapped him on the back and begun pacing around the deck. 'We'll need a gunman-that's John, a swordsman-that's me and one built to carry heavy loads-that's Greg. The largest lifeboat is necessary; I don't want to spend long moving the gold between the ship and shore. Tommy, Steven and Anderson get the boat ready and then I want you to get some weapons ready. You need to stay here and defend the ship if she's seen-but I doubt she'll be. John, Greg...you know what to do.' Sherlock paused and looked around him, his crew were all standing around gaping like idiots. He rolled his eyes. 'Come on! We haven't got all night! It's starting to get light. We don't want day to catch us.'

The crew jumped and set about with their allocated tasks; Tommy, Steven and Anderson were lowering the lifeboat into the water while John and Greg shuffled their way into the crew's sleeping quarters, no doubt to get their weapons and supplies. Long ago, they had learnt that it was essential to bring extra clothes, medical equipment, extra weapons and some food when going adventuring with Sherlock. He had a tendency to become distracted by the more interesting aspects of where they were rather than the boring plan his mind had told him to stick to. Quietly snorting out a laugh, he knew Mycroft would tut and roll his eyes, proclaiming that he was stubborn even to his own mind.

An emotion rose up in him and gripped his heart in a viper like vice as he thought of his sad, older brother who was weighted down by society and his parents where as he was free and happy. Yes, Sherlock thought, that's what the emotion was. _Pity_. Pity for Mycroft because he would never understand what it was to be a pirate. However the emotion didn't seem to match up the symptoms that he was having; dry mouth, pain in his chest, a sense of...regret and longing. _Longing_? For what, exactly? He ignored his emotions, filing them away in his mind palace where he kept anything that concerned with Mycroft. When he turned to his crew, he noticed that they were staring at him with an expression of intrigue and sadness-an odd combination. It wasn't until he brought his hands to his face did he realize that his cheeks were wet. Sherlock bristled, the mere idea that Mycroft could cause sentimental feelings to rise up in him filled him with disgust. It was perfectly obvious however that some sort of chemical evaporated from the strange Australian sea which caused his eyes to water-or perhaps it was the atmosphere, yes. That seemed a much more plausible explanation than he was _crying_.

* * *

As Molly held Jarli in her aching arms and walked on aimlessly, she suddenly started to remember the first time she ran with her family-the real version, not the fairytale she'd created in her head-it had been hard work but since she was so small she was not burdened with the stresses. The outback was treacherous; she knew how many escaped slaves had been caught and how many had died rather from starvation than tripping up and being found. Tau did not eat for weeks since when he stole any food it would go to her pregnant mother and since her mother felt guilty about eating everything, the scraps to her. Before the freedom had been alluring, the thought of not being owned and doing magic was seductive but she now understood why most slaves stayed slaves. The fight was exhausting and the constant worry of being caught and punished arduous, it was life over freedom and they had chosen life indefinitely.

'Jarli,' she spoke softly, trying to rouse the resting child.

The child, in question, moaned and nuzzled his head against her neck as his grip around her shoulders tightened. 'Moledyn? Is something wrong?' he asked and slipped off her back, moving to stand by her side, his bony hands finding hers.

'Nothing is wrong, my prince,' she beamed down at him and placed a kiss on his forehead. 'But we need to find a place to sleep.'

Jarli furrowed his eyebrows and then lifted his hands pointing to the mountains. 'What about there? In a cave? It will be safe until morning from the harsh elements.'

Molly blinked; she'd forget how wise beyond his nine years Jarli was. The mountain was a possibility and would be safer than resting out in the open but she'd heard stories of the ghosts in the caves, the sacred places of the buried dead who did not take kindly to trespassers. She shook her head and decided now was not the time for superstition. Being on the run was no time for any kind of hindrance on her movements, this was about survival.

Nodding, she squeezed his hands. 'Good idea, Jarli,' she grinned. 'It will be a long path, are you up for it?'

Jarli snorted and flexed his non-existent bicep. 'I'm strong, Molly. If you want I'll carry you up the mountain.'

She laughed and cuddled him into her side. 'You shouldn't say things you know you cannot carry out. What if I was tired and really wanted you to carry me up, hmm? You'd feel foolish for telling me that you could when you can't.'

From the corner of her eye, she saw him pout and had to hold in her laughter. As they made their way up the mountain, Molly was struck with a prophetic vision of the future that consisted of them constantly running away, never living life to the fullest. They would always be chained down by the ankle clamp and unable to perform magic for only a non-Magik person could remove it, if one with magic tried they would be given a mild electric shook. Unfortunately for Molly, this information came with firsthand experience.

As they neared the cave, Molly saw movement deep inside in the darkness and she swore it looked almost human. Eyes widening, she grabbed a hold of Jarli's shoulder and pulled him back because she knew he'd run straight into danger without realizing. It was true, the legends. It had to be for she saw no human tracks when they came up the mountain and no ordinary person would ever be this far into the outback unless they were runaway slaves, like her and her brother. Molly slowly pulled Jarli down and they crawled to a hide behind a hop bush, which thankfully grew plentiful around the cave.

Pressing her fingers to her lips to tell Jarli to stay quiet, Molly watched through the leaves with bated breath as the shadowy figure started to move forward. What she thought she would see was not what she saw. The man that appeared in the moonlight was not a hideous corpse or ghastly ghoul, he looked normal and quite handsome. He was tall, one of the tallest men she'd ever seen in her life and he wore a belt holding his cutlass and gun and a large pirate hat with a long hawk feather sticking out of it. Hawks were revered in the Magik community for its power of protection, could it be that this man was a Magik? No, she wouldn't risk it, not after she ran away from Plinkton. Plinkton would kill her or perhaps kill Jarli and make her watch considering he was selling her to that creep Moran. This man could be an enemy.

The mysterious man stretched and groaned, before pulling a small vial out of his pocket and smiling at it. After he chuckled, he kissed it and pocketed it again before retreating back into the cave. Jarli breathe a sigh of relief beside her but the relieved feeling didn't last long as another man appeared from inside the cave. This man was shorter with short shaggy hair and a kindly face but Molly stayed down, she had no idea who these people were. She would not be fooled by what seemed like a kind face-not again and certainly not now since she had Jarli to look after.

'Moledyn,' Jarli whispered as he started shake in fear.

Molly moved her hand to his hair and stroked it as soothingly as she could in this situation but his tremors became increasing violent. This was strange; Jarli never had such symptoms before. 'Shh, my prince,' she whispered back. 'It's okay. It's okay. Everything will be fine.'

From her the corner of her eye, she watched in horror as the man pulled out his gun from the holder and pointed at the bush they were hiding in. Without even a thought to her own safety, she pulled Jarli into her embrace and turned her back to the bullets so that she could be his human shield. She had often heard from eavesdropping on Plinkton and his friends that being shot happened in slow motion but she now knew that it was incorrect. Everything seemed to speed up and all she could focus on was the pain radiating from her thigh to engulf her entire body.

Jarli was screaming and sobbing her ears as he laid her on the floor and sprung up from their discovered hiding place. She wanted to scream and shout at Jarli, telling him he promised to run. He said he was going to run if anything happened to her. Don't be the hero. Don't be the hero, Jarli. Don't be the...

* * *

'What the bloody hell is going on out there, Watson!?' Sherlock shouted, emerging from the cave, his cutlass drawn and ready for battle. What he had expected to see was not what he saw. There was an unconscious woman lying on the floor with blood pouring out of her while John tried to tend to her but a skinny little boy was pulling him away and smacking him, screaming and crying.

'Leave my sister, you bastard!' he cried, his tiny fists striking John in the eyes and ears. Sherlock had to admire John's patience, he would have probably would have smacked the little boy back but John always had a soft spot for children. 'Leave her alone. Don't you touch her!'

'I'm trying to help her!' he cried, putting his hands up as shields. Unfortunately, it was doing nothing to stop the distraught little boy from landing blows on John's face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the boy by his upper hand and yanked him away from the medical doctor. John smiled thankfully at him and moved quickly to kneel next to the woman. As far as Sherlock could tell, due to the blood soaking her dress, it was a gunshot wound on her left thigh. He watched as John pulled up the woman's skirt and stopped for a second when he spotted the ankle clamp on her leg but he carried on unfazed to where she was wounded. Sweeping his eyes over her, he immediately found her common with a plain face, breasts and lips too small and far too skinny for his taste but what caught his interest was clamp on her ankle. It wasn't an ordinary clamp used for slaves with no magical talents-no it was a clamp that cancelled out magic and if the girl was wearing it, she must be a Magik.

The boy under his grasp sobbed as John applied pressure to the wound with one hand and the other snaked its way into one of the pouches in his belt to pull out a clean strip of gauze which he used to quickly wrapped around her thigh tying it in a knot before standing up to address him. 'That's the best I can do. I didn't really bring proper equipment to remove a bullet from anyone. I assumed that anyone with the bullet in their flesh would be our enemies.'

'What have you done to her?!' the boy growled before Sherlock could answer John. The child was all cried out it seemed and Sherlock noticed a rage in his voice as his fists curled up, ready to fight John.

The doctor knelt down, bringing himself to the boy's level, and looked him in the eye. 'I'm sorry I shot your sister,' John said, making his voice as soft and friendly as he could make it. 'But I am a doctor and I'm trying to make it better. You were lurking around in bushes, how was I to know it was you and your sister hiding, hmm?'

The little boy relaxed a little to Sherlock's surprise and nodded. 'Yeah, I guess.'

'My name is John and this is grumpy man is Sherlock. The big scary man that you might see coming out of that cave is Greg. Do you have a name?'

The child glanced up at him and then back to John, his gaze flickering to the woman lying on the floor for a second before he replied. 'Jarli,' he said. 'My name is Jarli.'

John nodded and smiled. 'Well, Jarli. I mean you know harm, if you want, you can go take a look at your sister and see that she is fine. Unconscious but fine.'

As soon as the boy, Jarli, nodded and rushed off to sit by his sister's side, John stood up and went to stand by Sherlock's side, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched Jarli and his sister. From his posture, Sherlock could tell that John had taken a likening to the young child and was gravely sorry for his rash decision in shooting at the bush. Sherlock already knew what John was going to ask before he even opened his mouth.

'No.'

'Look, I can't stitch her up here and she'll need at least-' John paused. 'Wait, what? Did you say no?'

Sherlock nodded. 'No, they are not elongating our time in Australia. Whether you like it or not, John, my ship is a sitting duck and we need to get out of these waters as soon as possible. You've patched her up best you could and your conscience should be clear. I'll give them some food and water and send them on their way.'

'What? How? I can't...how can you be so bloody cruel?' he growled, stepping out in front of him. Despite the fact that John was significantly shorter than him, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a lot smaller and if it was one thing he hated was being made to feel small.

'You watch who you are talking to. I am your Captain and you will address me as such.'

John snorted. 'No, you are my friend and if I see you're being a dick. I'm gonna call you out on it. These people need our help. Christ, Sherlock, they're runaway slaves. You, of all people, should know what happens to a runaway slave.'

Sherlock sucked in his cheek and looked ahead of John to the woman and boy. It was a low blow but he felt the telltale signs of strings attached to his heart being pulled as his mind immediately wandered to Eve. Poor, sweet, defenceless old Eve. His eyes flickered to the opening of the cave as Greg appeared wearing a gold crown and about seven chains around his neck, on his back was a large bag filled with the treasure. He cocked an eyebrow at the young boy and unconscious woman but made no comment apart from rolling his eyes and nodding at Sherlock as he trundled his way back to the boat hidden on the nearby beach. It was his second trip.

'How long will it take for her to heal?'

John exhaled. 'Hmm, that's difficult to say. I mean, it didn't look too bad however I wasn't able to get a proper medical look but my instinctual opinion says, judging by the fact I shot her at close range and it probably only tore through flesh, it should only take about three to six months, depending on how fast she heals.'

'And if she was a Magik?'

'I don't...err, know,' John shook his head. 'I've never treated a Magik before. How do you know she's Magik?'

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look and pursed his lips. 'Her ankle clamp. It's made to cancel out her magic. As always, John, you see but don't observe,' he turned away from John before he could reply and moved to stand behind the boy. If he was going to be gracious enough to let the runaways stay on his ship, he might as well get something out of it and he knew just want he wanted. 'Hello, Jarli.'

The boy glanced up at him and stood up, trying but failing to block him from gazing at his sister. It was amusing, really, to think that he could fight him although Sherlock didn't doubt if he took the boy's ankle clamp off, he'd probably wipe the floor with his body. Magiks were not akin to violence but when provoked, they could put up such a fight that even Davy Jones would be running in the opposite direction. He noticed that the boy had, despite being a runaway, relatively clean clothes and looked a plump for someone who supposedly had been roaming the outback so Sherlock concluded that perhaps they had only just ran away, perhaps even this very night.

'Hello,' Jarli answered, mistrust clear in his voice.

'You're a Magik,' Sherlock smiled, deciding to knock out all the niceties. He'd knew that Jarli was a smart little boy and probably would have more reason to not trust him if he started out by lying to him.

'What's it got to do with you?'

'Well, I'm letting you stay on my ship and my medical...officer here is going to be treating your sister. Now, I'm doing this out of the kindness of my heart and I think it seems unfair that you don't do anything in return for me,' Sherlock plastered on his niceness, most innocence face he could muster.

The boy growled, low and animalistic. 'I don't think you have a good grasp on doing something out of the kindness of your heart. It means you don't really have to expect anything back from the people you help,' Jarli met his eyes in a challenging manner and Sherlock felt something like respect flare up in the back of his mind.

Somewhere behind him, John chuckled. 'Ok, you caught me,' he said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. 'So let's say, instead, that we are doing each other favours. I help you and your sister and you owe me. I take off your ankle clamp and your sister's and you owe me.'

'So I'll owe you two favours?'

A smile rose to his lips, all teeth, no warmth. 'That's right. I'm doing you two favours. You owe me two favours. Take or leave it, little boy. This offer won't be around for long, it is nearly day and I need to get back to my ship.'

Jarli furrowed his eyebrows and glanced out to his sister. 'What will be with favours? What will I have to do?'

He contemplated lying to the boy or telling him he had to take the deal before he could know but instead he settled on telling the boy the truth. After all, if he was going to release a young Magik onto the world, it was best to stay on his good side. If he was honest, he was desperate for the boy to take the deal because he was sure it was his only way out of the Australian waters without being spotted. For the first time, Sherlock Holmes had no plan and if the boy took the deal not only would he get out of Australia unharmed with his ship intact but he'd also be able to avenge his friends in the pirate's port.

'My ship has been...,' he struggled to find the words without sounding weak. 'compromised. And I need a young Magik, such as yourself to provide a distraction while I sail myself away from this land.'

The boy nodded. 'Ok, ok...so what is the second favour?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Now, this one, I'm sure you'll like. The Government has gotten a hold of a small Magik port town, Karlta Warana? I had a lot of...acquaintances...in this town and I want to make those bad men pay for-'

'Karlta Warana is gone?' the boy cried, gulping as tears sprung to his eyes.

'Do you know it?'

He shook his head. 'No, my sister and I cannot remember the way to it but it was my birthplace. At least that is what my sister tells me.'

Sherlock leaned down, mere inches from the boys face. 'Do you want them to go unpunished for destroying your birthplace?'

A rage so foul and deep rippled from the boy and passed into Sherlock that he had to step back as the boy clenched his jaw. 'Never.'

Before he could answer the boy, he was pulled away by John who was staring at him in disbelief, anger and a tiny bit of fear. His hands were balled into fists and he was shaking. Sherlock's eyes swept over John, trying to decipher why he was acting like this.

'What are you playing at?' John hissed at him, quietly. 'That is a _child_. I don't mind you manipulating people to do what you want but I will not stand by and watch you turn that child into a killer. No way, Sherlock. Not now. Not ever.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trust John and his conscience to get in the way. 'Look, he won't be killing anyone. He'll just be making the weapons that we use to kill. He's more of a weapon maker. When you kill a man with your sword-do they arrest the maker of the sword or the man who committed the action?'

'That does not, in the slightest bit, make me less uneasy about this. Look, I understand using him for a distraction but not this. Sherlock, we will avenge them some other way,' John pleaded.

'No,' he cried. 'that town...sentiment is for fools and yet...I am not going to walk away when I have the opportunity.'

John sighed. 'Sherlock, I understand how you feel-'

'No. You don't. You throw your sentiment around freely but I never...it takes something special to pull that out my _non-existent black heart_ but Karlta Warana did.'

'I know how you feel,' Jarli said suddenly after watching the exchange between the two men with interest, his honey brown eyes resting on Sherlock. 'My father and mother was caught when I was a child-my sister was twelve. There was a slave driver, he could have kept our family together but he thought it would be funny to sell my sister and I separately to my mother and father. My sister doesn't mean to but when she tells me the story, I feel her hatred for this man. I know she wants to do violent things to him. She'd never tell me and I'll never tell her I feel this. But if I met him, I wouldn't hesitate...'

Sherlock feels a twang in his heart but his face remains stoic. 'How terrible.'

Jarli shrugged. 'He was an old bitter man according to my sister. He's probably dead by now, anyway,' he took one look back at his sister and then stuck his hand out. 'You have a deal.'

* * *

_**Using an Aboriginal language translator-so this might be wrong-Karlta means calling and Warana means blue sky. I thought it'd be nice to call the town that so it would be like the Magiks are calling for freedom-since ya know, have you ever looked at a blue sky? It's so vast and beautiful and relaxing-I dunno. I'm probably just talking rubbish. **_

_**Also, I figured that Sherlock might be out of character here and so I'm sorry about that but I tried to make it seem like he was kinda disgusted that he has sentimental feelings. I don't even know if that came across but yh. **_


End file.
